


Making Glove

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Because I love Leather Gloves, Dark, Dumbledore's Gloves, Hate, Homophobic Language, Leather gloves, Light Masochism, M/M, Masturbation, Spanking, Voyeurism, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 20:18:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17372612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: Dumbledore frowns and the gloves rise, filled by invisible hands.





	Making Glove

**Author's Note:**

> I’m so sorry about the title. It makes it sound like fluff but it’s really not – it’s dark, creepy, stalkerish (did I say dark?) fic. There’s homophobic language and lots of hate. Please don’t read it if you might find it upsetting.
> 
> *Update* The lovely [GalacticWalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalacticWalker) has translated this story into Chinese, which makes me so happy! You can find it here: [制作手套](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17918531)

 

Paris attic 1904

Torquil Travers is twenty-eight. He has a wife and child, and a second child on the way. He has a decent job as a junior auror, with a promising career mapped out ahead of him. Travers leads a respectable life. He pays his taxes, gets on well with his neighbours and brings home the bacon.

Recently, Travers’ department has tasked him with keeping an eye on Albus Dumbledore. This involves commuting to and from Paris daily, where Dumbledore is currently residing. Gellert Grindelwald has been recruiting followers across Europe and, although Dumbledore appears to have severed all ties with his old ‘friend’, British Magical Law Enforcement still wants Dumbledore watched.

Travers has been granted free reign over his methods and he takes the job of watching Dumbledore very seriously. Dumbledore is twenty-three, only five years Travers’ junior, but he is young and free in a way that Travers never was, and can never now hope to be. Dumbledore is impulsive and unpredictable. Sometimes he stays in bed until midday; other times he’s out walking by the canals, no matter how early Travers arrives. This makes him difficult to keep track of.

Magical mirrors placed in Dumbledore’s attic room had worked well until Dumbledore cleared them out last week. Travers couldn’t afford to lose sight of Dumbledore, even in his room. Dumbledore could have been contacting Grindelwald by owl, or even by flue, and that would never do; not on Travers’ watch. So, Travers has rented the attic room next door, with a little magical persuasion. His French isn’t the best but the landlady wouldn’t feel inclined to recall their conversation anyway.

The wall separating Dumbledore’s attic room from Travers’ has been rendered transparent, thanks to an enchantment Travers worked overtime to perfect. Silencing charms and notice-me-not charms protect him from Dumbledore’s detection, and the setup is generally much more convenient than the mirrors had been. The newly installed audio augmentation charms are gratifyingly effective too. Travers can hear every soft exhale and murmur that Dumbledore makes as he pores over his stack of enormous books, a thing he does for long boring hours every day.

“Votre cuir, monsieur!” The voice is on Dumbledore’s side of the wall, somebody approaching on the stairs.

“J’arrive.” Dumbledore unbolts the door to reveal a smiling delivery man. “Merci, cela devrait être parfait,” he says, accepting what looks to be folded leather. And of course Dumbledore’s French is perfect. He pays the man, who taps his cap in thanks, before re-bolting the door, unaware that it does nothing for his privacy.

Travers watches with interest as Dumbledore unrolls the leather, soft looking with a fine black sheen. He produces a set of paper stencils from a desk drawer, shaped for what can only be a pair of leather gloves, and pins them in place.

Dumbledore cuts and sews the pieces, painstakingly by hand. He’s at it most of the afternoon.

Travers’ mind wanders. The coming weekend will be the first weekend he has had off work for months. He could tell Fenton, his cover, about the rented room setup. Then again, Fenton is not as dedicated to the work. Fenton might laugh behind Travers’ back and accuse him of sucking up to Pilliwickle. Worse, he might accuse Travers of some kind of voyeuristic perversion, especially given Dumbledore’s reputation, and that would never do. Unfounded rumours of that sort have destroyed lesser men’s careers.

In the old days, before the baby came along, Travers would have taken Nancy dancing on a Saturday night. He could still suggest it, ask Nancy to arrange a nanny for the evening, but he already knows that it would be pointless. Nancy hates to leave their daughter, even to spend time with her husband. Travers tries not to find it insulting but it seems the longer they’re married, the more Nancy takes him for granted, and the colder their marriage bed grows.  

Another five years, ten at the most, and his children will be old enough for Nancy to return to him. Travers’ work puts him in contact with all kinds of magical families and he envies the wealthy purebloods the most. They seem to effortlessly maintain active social lives whilst simultaneously raising hoards of eloquent children. Nancy’s family are old and respectable, yes, but somewhat provincial. It’s too late for regrets of that sort though.

Dumbledore has made a nice-looking pair of gloves. They’re sized for men’s hands and he keeps trying them on, so Travers assumes he has made them for himself. Why on earth he made them by hand, his reputation for magical talent being what it is, Travers wouldn’t know, but it seems harmless enough.

Happy at last with the fit, Dumbledore snips off the thread-ends and consults a book on his desk. Things get really interesting when he points his wand at the gloves and begins to chant.

The spells aren’t Latin or anything that Travers recognises but he listens fixedly so that he can pensieve the memory for later. “… _w mn bh shma jadw dadm_ ,” Dumbledore finishes. A shower of red sparks falls from his wand, sinking into the leather.

Dumbledore frowns and the gloves rise, filled by invisible hands. The left glove takes a piece of blank parchment from the desk and holds it still while the right glove inks a quill and signs Dumbledore’s name. Dumbledore smiles. His gaze shifts, scanning around the room for something else that will test his new toys and settling on a coat that hangs near the door. The gloves turn the coat around, smooth its material out and nimbly fasten all six buttons. Travers is impressed despite himself: he usually has to remove his own gloves to fasten buttons.

Dumbledore makes the gloves point and clap. He’s obviously concentrating but the frown has disappeared from his face. The gloves weave together, snap their fingers and give Dumbledore the two fingered salute. Dumbledore laughs aloud. Never once does he murmur a charm or lift his wand. If he had known Travers was watching then Travers would have accused him of showing off, but of course he doesn’t; it’s just natural brilliance. Travers hates him.

The gloves fall inanimate to the bed and Dumbledore begins to pace. It seems that his mood has changed. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and when he opens them it’s as though he’s braced for something. The gloves rise to waist-level, filled as they might be if a person was facing Dumbledore and wearing them. Without warning, the right glove slaps Dumbledore across the face with a resounding crack. Dumbledore tilts his head back, cheek reddening. “Gellert,” he says, voice broken.

Travers is instantly alert, coming up off his chair. This is what he’s here for; why he’s been watching Dumbledore those long boring hours. Are the gloves a gift for Grindelwald? A dark tool? Dumbledore should have been watched at night as well, Travers had told Pilliwickle as much. Pilliwickle had insisted it wasn’t necessary, that the tracking spells and alerts Travers had set in case Dumbledore left his room would be sufficient. Clearly Pilliwickle had been mistaken.

Dumbledore levels his stare once again at his invisible opponent and the gloves attack. The right glove seizes Dumbledore by the throat, not quite strangling but threatening to, and the left glove takes a fistful of Dumbledore’s hair.

Travers panics. Has Dumbledore transferred control of the gloves? Is it possible that these are the actions of the criminal Grindelwald? What should he do?

Dumbledore scrabbles up the bed, seemingly dragged by the hair and throat. When he’s centrally placed though, the gloves cease their rough treatment and begin to caress his hair, smoothing it the way Nancy soothes their daughter when she has a fever. Everyone knows the rumours about Dumbledore and Grindelwald’s friendship. Could Travers be witnessing the evidence?

Dumbledore lies still, eyes firmly closed. The gloves rip open his shirt, making him arch off the bed. Buttons ping against the transparent wall and Travers turns to leave the room. He will knock at Dumbledore’s door, he decides, pretending a chance visit, and worry about explanations later. A glance over his shoulder however shows the gloves are undoing Dumbledore’s trousers. Travers freezes, his mouth going dry. The gloves seem to have trouble with the fastenings and Dumbledore growls in frustration. He sits up and bats the gloves aside mid-air, unfastening his own trousers and kicking them off before stretching out again, eyes closed to continue with his fantasy.

Because that’s what this is, Travers realises, returning stiffly to his chair. Dumbledore isn’t under attack, he’s controlling the gloves. And apparently the throat-grabbing and violence is how Albus Dumbledore gets off. Travers sits heavily. He’s seen other men’s cocks before, of course he has, but only his own in the excited state Dumbledore’s is in now, twitching against his belly.

“Golden-boy queer,” Travers mutters, irked by his own body’s response. Dumbledore can’t hear him because of the silencing charms but he likes the idea that he could. He watches as the gloves stroke firmly down Dumbledore’s bare thighs and Travers says, “Queer,” again, louder this time, putting all the sneering derision he feels for Dumbledore into his tone. Dumbledore moans on cue and Travers is hooked.

The gloves touch Dumbledore all over, starting at his feet, which are pulled aside to part his legs. Both gloves knead their way back up Dumbledore’s long legs, pausing at his hips to push him down, hard into the bed. They release him and work their way up his torso, taking hold of his nipples, which are pinched and twisted. Dumbledore keens.

Travers winces in sympathy. “Eesh,” he says, palming himself through his trousers, “That’s got to hurt.”

The gloves pull and twist and Dumbledore moans, his cock, unbelievably, staying hard through the treatment. And why wouldn’t it? Dumbledore likes this. Dumbledore is doing this to himself.

Travers takes his hand off himself and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. It’s a potent scene. It would be so easy to imagine the gloved hands as his own, to picture himself asserting control over Dumbledore, arguably the most powerful and certainly the prettiest fairy Travers has ever encountered. Not that he’s that way himself. He shifts again and he knows he should look away but he can’t.

Dumbledore’s face is slapped again, this time by the left glove and it leaves Dumbledore gasping. It’s too much for Travers to process, too shocking. He pushes a hand against himself again and hates his weakness. He hasn’t felt a stirring of desire for months, not that Nancy seems to care, and now this. Is this what he lusts after now?

Both gloves take hold of Dumbledore’s ankles and pull him down the bed. They flip him over, one glove at his shoulder, the other at his hip. Dumbledore raises his bottom into the air, arms and head resting on the bed, and Travers whispers, “Oh yes,” realising what will happen a moment before the right glove lands three loud slaps to alternate cheeks. Dumbledore buries his face in his arms, hiding his shame.

Travers gives in and unfastens his trousers. “Fucking fairy. Where’s your Hun lover-boy now?” he says, as the gloves crack down. Dumbledore’s behind pinks up nicely and the right glove keeps at him while the left reaches between his legs. Travers is expecting the left glove to take hold of Dumbledore’s cock but instead it encloses his balls, tugging them back and – awfully, deliciously – into the line of fire for the right glove.

Dumbledore howls. Travers’ breath stutters, he can’t believe what he’s seeing and hearing. Hopefully Dumbledore remembered to put up his own silencing charms. The glove that struck soothes Dumbledore’s back and the one between his legs strokes his cock, which is still, incredibly, hard after its mistreatment. Dumbledore sobs. “Please,” he whispers, and Travers sees that he has been crying.

“Pathetic,” Travers taunts, stroking himself distractedly. _This is what your future holds,_ a little voice whispers in his conscience, _risky transactions in back alleys and you’ll never find it again._ He shakes the thought off. The gloves soothe the boy on the bed – because that’s what Dumbledore looks like now with his tear-stained face and baby-smooth skin – and Travers says, “Beg for it you fucking queer.”

“Please,” Dumbledore says again, and the stroking glove pushes two fingers into Dumbledore’s exposed hole.

“Holy fuck,” Travers grabs at the base of his cock to stop himself from coming. The leather is slick and shiny, he can see it now, as the fingers go in and out. The charm is one that most boys learn in hushed dormitories and he knows about Dumbledore’s effortless non-verbal magic better than most but it still takes him by surprise.

Dumbledore’s hips move subtly at first, a small squirm as the gloves settle into a rhythm of thrusting and stroking together. Gradually it forces Dumbledore’s body into a more obvious response. Travers watches in awe, matching the pace, and soon enough Dumbledore is grunting, thrusting back against the glove. The left side of his face, the side that Travers can almost see, is a deeper pink than his stretched hole, and colouring darker with the effort of getting fucked. The glove holding Dumbledore’s cock goes still, just holding him there.

Travers tugs at his own cock angrily. Every stroke is a little loss of self-esteem but it feels too good to stop. Maybe the golden-boy can get away with such debauchery but Travers is smart enough to know that this is the closest to it, and to Dumbledore, that he will ever get. He has to apparate home to London at the end of the day, to the smog and the rain. He has to be at the office on time. He has to be a good father.

Dumbledore cries out when he comes, “Gellert! _Gellert!_ ”

“No,” Travers snarls, gripping himself tight enough that it hurts. “No,” he says again, in a choked voice, “You beautiful fucking queer,” and braces himself against the invisible wall as he reaches his climax.

Dumbledore lies curled in on himself afterwards. Travers thinks he might be saying something silently, perhaps a name, but his face is turned away and Travers can’t be sure.

The gloves lie soiled and discarded on the floor.

Travers watches as Dumbledore falls asleep, a reckless plan forming as he waits. When Dumbledore’s breathing has settled Travers apparates silently into Dumbledore’s attic room. It’s a trick all good aurors master and Dumbledore doesn’t wake.

A quick _somulus_ ensures Dumbledore won’t wake, and Travers picks up the gloves. He runs them over his own cheek and neck, feeling both disgusted and oddly vindicated by the slimy trails they leave. A new swell of arousal thrums through him and it makes him angry. He throws the gloves down, leaving them where he found them.

Dumbledore looks less like a boy and more like a man close-up. His skin still looks smooth and flawless, and despite the rich body hair there’s hardly any stubble on his face. “So fair,” Travers murmurs. He leans down and licks a long stripe across Dumbledore’s sleeping face.

The skin is salty and sweet. Saliva shines there like depravity itself. It will be dry by the time Dumbledore wakes.

Travers checks his watch. It’s one minute past five, early but permissable.

He collects his case and apparates to the portkey point. Home to London and his pregnant wife.

 


End file.
